g pulling us apart."

So! Her deception had found her out. But Jon--she felt--had forgiven
that. It was what he said of his mother which caused the guttering in
her heart and the weak sensation in her legs.

Her first impulse was to reply--her second, not to reply. These impulses
were constantly renewed in the days which followed, while desperation
grew within her. She was not her father's child for nothing. The
tenacity which had at once made and undone Soames was her backbone, too,
frilled and embroidered by French grace and quickness. Instinctively she
conjugated the verb "to have" always with the pronoun "I." She
concealed, however, all signs of her growing desperation, and pursued
such river pleasures as the winds and rain of a disagreeable July
permitted, as if she had no care in the world; nor did any "sucking
baronet" ever neglect the business of a publisher more consistently than
her attendant spirit, Michael Mont.

To Soames she was a puzzle. He was almost deceived by this careless
gaiety. Almost--because he did not fail to mark her eyes often fixed on
nothing, and the film of light shining from her bedroom window late at
night. What was she thinking and brooding over into small hours when she
ought to have been asleep? But he dared not ask what was in her mind;
and, since that one little talk in the billiard-room, she said nothing to
him.

In this taciturn condition of affairs it chanced that Winifred invited
them to lunch and to go afterward to "a most amusing little play, 'The
Beggar's Opera'" and would they bring a man to make four? Soames, whose
attitude toward theatres was to go to nothing, accepted, because Fleur's
attitude was to go to everything. They motored up, taking Michael Mont,
who, being in his seventh heaven, was found by Winifred "very amusing."
"The Beggar's Opera" puzzled Soames. The people were very unpleasant,
the whole thing very cynical. Winifred was "intrigued"--by the dresses.
The music, too, did not displease her. At the Opera, the night before,
she had arrived too early for the Russian Ballet, and found the stage
occupied by singers, for a whole hour pale or apoplectic from terror lest
by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune. Michael Mont
was enraptured with the whole thing. And all three wondered what Fleur
was thinking of it. But Fleur was not thinking of it. Her fixed idea
stood on the stage and sang with Polly Peachum, mimed with Filch, da